


A Fortress Dark

by rufferto



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Means business, Bucky is a BAMF, Bucky is a feral racoon, Canon Divergent (Slight), Dissociation, Flashbacks, Guilt, Guilt out the wazoo, Helpful Priest is Helpful, Hope, Identity Issues, Internalized Homophobia, Longing, M/M, Mention of torture, Original Character - Freeform, PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rules? Fuck your rules, Self-Discovery, Steve's Magical Tongue, Unrequited feelings or are they?, WWII, cranky bucky, fluff amongst angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:00:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26299795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufferto/pseuds/rufferto
Summary: The Soldier takes care of himself after the events at the Triskelion. He must heal his body and his mind. He feels compelled to remember how to be Bucky Barnes but he is not sure how.Dear kind readers. This is my very first Stucky fic, I really hope you like it. I appreciate comments! You can also contact me also on tumblr at rufferto9@tumblr.com.Thank you so much to my lovely BETA!!! You have no idea how much you helped me with this fic!!!! @buckyismyconstant@tumblr.com :) she helped me with tags too!
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Time Line Notes: For Clarification this takes place over three years between The Triskelion events, Age of Ultron and beginning of Civil War.

_PROLOGUE_

_“I knew him, who is he?” The Winter Soldier already knew the answer._

_The Individual he remembered was not a tall, muscular man. He was a skinny, blonde boy from another lifetime, another era. He was a dream, a nightmare, someone who died a long time ago._

_The Winter Soldier tried to struggle, tried to fight_ _but it was useless. They knew exactly where to poke and prod and where it hurt the most. Sometimes he welcomed the pain. The pain cleared his mind. When all he felt was pain, he didn’t have to think. When he didn’t have to think, he didn’t have flashbacks. He almost wanted to thank them when it was all over._

_He was an agent of Death, and Death did not care about the color of a target’s eyes._

_***_

All hell had broken loose and the Soldier had been forced to retreat. Two weeks had passed since the events at the Triskelion and he'd finally found a safe place.

The Soldier looked at his reflection, which as usual did nothing to jog anything loose. He knew what he was, but acceptance was harder. He took off his mask and discarded it on the table. He was tall with thick dark hair that had streaks of light brown in the right light. It was shoulder-length and a disaster most of the time. He never cared about his hair. It helped to hide his face, and that’s what mattered. He wasn’t supposed to show his face. He rubbed at the dark eye black and scraped it off his face. He didn’t know the man behind the mask.

Not wanting to speak English to the man staring back at him, he whispered in Romanian: “Who are you?”

An echo tugged angrily at the back of his mind, an exploding tank…weaving in and out of a field on a motorcycle, a helmet protecting him. Other men in similar uniforms… and red white and blue. A shield. Blonde hair again. His body tensed as he gazed at the mirror without actually looking at it. He was trying to make the memory clear, it hurt too much though. He brought the palm of his hand up to is forehead and rubbed his aching head. Another flashback to deal with, more feelings to analyze. His hand moved down to rub his face. He touched the face of the man through the mirror. “Who are you?”

He needed an answer. 

You are James Buchanan Barnes.  
  
No.

He stared hard at his reflection, looking at himself for the first time in a couple of years, analyzing every detail. His arm… he didn’t remember losing it. He remembered a great deal of pain. He remembered trying to pull it off. He remembered trying to smash it but the metal was too hard to break. He remembered trying to figure out what it was formed from but could never stay in control long enough for lab readings. For two months he had stayed free, and it was the longest respite he’d ever had.

Money had never been a problem. He had it stashed in various locations, with calculated efficiency. Never too much anywhere. He was a ghost in more ways than one and a shell of a man.

As he studied his neck, he could see faint scarring. He healed eventually, but not quite as quickly as Hydra would have liked. He would not think about those scars right now.

He looked back up at his face and tried to find himself in empty, sunken eyes. Was there a man within reach anymore? Did he feel anything? He stripped out of his armored shirt and tossed the leather on the ground next to a dingy bedroll. It was a rule that he would never be vulnerable but he didn’t have those anymore. He didn’t have a mission, and there were no words repeating in his head.

He’d found the abandoned building in Cluj-Napoca. It was a place few would seek him. The building was behind the picturesque Piața Unirii church and he could hear the Masses if he got close. It was the last place they would expect to find him. It had been home to a wealthy diplomat, but had fallen into disrepair. The Soldier had claimed a room in the back, hidden from view with easy access to the street and several escape routes. It was near a market. He didn’t have to store food, and this was only a place to lay his head. Some twenty-five years ago he had stashed a briefcase of money in a basement wall on July the fourth. It was still there.

That was an important date to him. It was Captain America’s birthday, but there was more to it. _So much more. H_ e couldn’t remember, exactly, but the memory was there. He knew it. It was buried deep inside under a tangle of wires and needles.

It was cold outside, but he tugged off his dirty white shirt with a low groan. It was splattered with blood and sweat stains since hadn’t been properly washed it in years His sudden revulsion of it baffled him. It hadn’t really bothered him before. He balled it up and flung it across the room. He couldn’t remember when he last had new clothing, or clothing that was _his._

The Soldier stared clinically at his upper body. He avoided looking too hard at the angry red welts along the edges of his metal arm. If he looked hard enough at his shoulder the discoloration itched like crazy and a strong desire to break open wounds bubbled in his chest. Every now and then, he wondered if they were even there, or the scars were just his imagination. Could it be phantom pain from the moment they took his arm? He didn’t know right then. He couldn’t anchor any memories, though he was trying hard. He continued to take stock of his appearance and catalogue his abilities. He was slim, tightly muscled and powerful. He could jump buildings, tear metal off its hinges, bend it and punch holes through brick. He could handle any weapon and operate any machine of war. He could kill with his bare hands. He was not a man; he was a _thing_. A _machine_ that had been turned on and off. Did he even deserve to try and find the man he used to be? What was left of James Buchanan Barnes? He was a shade, a ghost, a specter, hollow flesh stretched over a body designed to take life, not to restore it. What else did he know but death? What skills could he fall back on?

These and many other thoughts played over and over in his mind. His head ached worse with every flashback. His body trembled from deeply buried trauma that he didn’t want to deal with.

 _Soldier, you have to find a way to move forward, or throw yourself at the mercy of others. You need a mission. You need a goal. You cannot exist without one_.

The rolling words thudded through his mind like an invisible hammer. Within the cracks between those words, memory was leaking through. He heard rain begin to patter outside and the stone walls of the chamber he was in became slightly damp on one side. There were chips in the walls and paint flecks on the floor. 

The world was unforgiving, and the temperature dropped as the rain fell harder, pelting hail against the roof. It sounded like bullets.

It’s possible that the weather outside could be mother nature warning him not to continue on that course but he didn’t care. He rubbed in anguish at the mirror, as he tried to clear the condensation. The chill in the air worsened. Why did everything work against him when he sought answers? The inconvenient weather caused his face to blur and he didn’t want that. He needed to see himself. He swore angrily when the action proved futile and the mirror began to get more and more opaque as it continued to thwart him. He took his belt off and then his boots in a systematic fashion as he trembled. He would find the man. Without his socks the toes curled in damp little pools on the broken tiles. He paced up and down but hadn’t noticed that the floor was littered with broken jagged pieces. The sharp bits cut into his unprotected feet a little bit

With the mirror fogged up, he had no frame of reference. He reached up to grip his hair in frustration. He was cold, he was hungry and he was tired. His fingers shook as he made his way back to his small bedroll and cocooned himself inside, using his pack as a pillow. He wanted to wake up with a memory so he didn’t want a deep sleep. He dug into his pack and pulled out his diary. He’d taken to keeping notes in various languages. He pulled out a stubby pencil and made note of the time and place. He flipped a few pages and gazed at a photo there. His previous target, Captain America. He wasn’t focused on the outfit or the man, but the eyes.

Try as he might, he couldn’t thrust into the pile of shit that was his brain and drag out a clear memory. A flash of lightning illuminated the glass window. The Soldier glanced over at it. Vines and branches grew into and around it, pushing their way relentlessly through the fractured and streaked glass. It used to be a great window. He could see the carvings in the wood, tiny cherubs at each of the four corners. A rat scurried under the roots and back into a hole in the ground.

_“Come on, Bucky, we’re going to be late! If Ma catches me out in the rain, she’ll ground me for a month!”  
  
“Just a little longer…”  
  
Irresistible blue eyes gazed at him imploringly. “Bucky, come on….!” Long fingers tugged at his shirt sleeve. _

It was a solid memory, not a fragment. He didn’t understand it yet, not fully, but the rest would come to him. Part of him didn’t want the memories, but another part of him did. That part of him longed to remember. The piece of him that knew the man in the photo knew him well and desired him. But the Soldier didn’t know desire, didn’t feel, didn’t exist for himself.

 _“Bucky, someone will see us!”_  
  
The Soldier sighed and tucked the photo and book away. He wrote down each sentence, one in Mandarin and the others in German, he didn’t want to make it easy if anyone who found his journal.

When he closed his eyes and conjured up an image, it was of a slim young man, not of Captain America. A man who was very angry with him for leaving. He’d begged the Soldier to stay, but there was no choice. He hadn’t volunteered.

As sleep finally tugged at him, he felt himself wishing that he had more context, but nothing further would emerge.

Oddly, there were no nightmares, the picture had been a comfort. When he woke, dawn was streaming through the windows and the rain had stopped. His hunger made his head throb. Maybe he could find something outside. Or stop at a store. Not many people here paid attention to current events. They wouldn’t recognize him. He’d be careful. He ran his hands through his greasy hair and spotted a difference from last night. He immediately jumped to his feet, knife out, and crouched low. Not many people could sneak up like that. “Show yourself!” he snapped in Romanian, eyes darting towards the doorway. The door was on its hinges, but still propped up. There was a man standing behind it. In front of the door was a fresh basket. Inside the basket were clean clothes, a cloth and some soap. There was also water and a Thermos, the Soldier thought it looked like it might be soup and fresh bread.

“Be calm, my son, this is a safe space,” the priest responded. He was soft spoken yet authoritative at the same time. “I am Father Dumitru, I work at the church. I came to inspect the lightning damage and found you here.” He only looked at the Soldier’s eyes, not his arm or the rest of him. “I have brought you some food. Please, eat, dress then come into the church and I will have a nun dress your wounds.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” the Soldier scowled.

“You are in the God’s house and need help. It is the right thing.” Father Dumitru was a small man, thin and frail. He had silver hair, long fingers and his eyes were as blue as the sky.

“I can pay you,” the Soldier hadn’t put down his knife and wouldn’t.

“You can make a contribution when you have the comfort you require.” The priest held both hands against his waist, clasped together, calm in spite of the threat. The Soldier had a feeling there was more to this priest than met the eye.

“I don’t want comfort,” the Soldier’s scowl deepened. He didn’t like talking. He didn’t like having to communicate in any way that wasn’t with a knife or a gun. He wasn’t used to it, wasn’t natural for him.

“Every man wants comfort.” The priest stepped back. “I will leave you now, and you can come inside when you are ready.”

He’d never be ready for that. He didn’t know much about his past but he knew one thing; he didn’t like churches for some reason. He nodded curtly. He’d give them a donation and leave this place. He’d find somewhere else. His stomach rumbled as the priest left him alone. He winced as he straightened and walked over to the basket. His noticed his feet stung.

He ignored the pain and brought the basket back to his damp bedroll. He ate the food. He wanted to wolf it down, but he knew better, and he carefully worked at it. He could not remember the last time he’d eaten. He sat there for a long time afterwards, eyeing the clothing. It was simple; blue jeans, a white shirt and a pair of working boots just about his size. 

The Soldier wrestled with self-preservation. He wanted to stay in the shadows, staying out of the light. Being inside a church would mean being in the light. He wouldn’t go in. They couldn’t make him. He wouldn’t be a part of it. He would not let anyone control him, ever again.

He took the cloth and wiped off some of the dirt and found a cap in the basket. He pressed it on his head. The Soldier usually only moved at night. He did not find comfort, and he did not seek comfort. He took care of himself. He didn’t need charity. He carefully eased out of his pants, glancing back at the old mirror. He was filthy. A shower would be amazing.

He didn’t need a church though and he’d get a room somewhere. But his body ached, screaming at him to relent. A shower, a bed, safety. He needed those things. He wouldn’t beg for them, but he needed them. He got into the offered clothes and bundled up his uniform. Resigned to the thought that he might need it again, he knew he’d have to clean it later. He left the bedroll and rifle stashed behind the mirror and took his backpack, the briefcase of money and concealable weapons with him. He would go back for the gun when he was ready to leave. Or visit one of his weapons caches later.

He made his way to the back door of the church after checking the perimeter and making a thorough search to be certain that no government agents or SHIELD were in the general vicinity. The town of Cluj-Napoca was not one that tended to be on the radar of most foreign governments beyond tourism. He entered the church via the back door, cap pulled down low.

He waited in the foyer, sitting on a bench uncomfortably. He had his beat-up hoodie. Everything he had was threadbare and this was the first clean shirt and jeans he wore in a long time. It was almost like feeling human again, but not quite yet.

The priest had been setting bibles in the pews. He was given the news that the stranger had shown up. He went to the back foyer to take the basket from the Soldier. “I’m glad you ate,” he nodded. “There’s acolytes’ chambers down the hall, you can use one for today, showers are communal, but there is some hot water.”

“I don’t mind as long as no one touches me,” the Soldier says, “or looks at me.” His voice was hard, he meant business.

“I will arrange for you to have use of the shower alone.” The priest looked at the bundle of leather under the Soldier’s arm. “I can have that cleaned.”

They were still speaking Romanian and the Soldier felt comforted by that. He knew his language skills were flawless. “I will clean it myself.” He didn’t want anyone seeing the bullet holes.

The priest nods, “This is a sanctuary, you are safe here.” There was no indication that they knew who the Soldier was.

“I have never been safe, anywhere,” the Soldier found himself responding before he could stop himself. He grunted. He didn’t like people who were capable of making him talk.

The priest merely took it in stride, like he was used to dealing with cranky people. “What should I call you?”

“You can call me J…” the Soldier frowns. James didn’t _feel_ right. But who was Bucky? “You can call me Buchanan,” he responded tersely, he wasn’t ready to ask people to call him Bucky. He wasn’t Bucky yet and he may never be that man again.

The priest nodded without comment, like he’d been asked to be called something simple. He knew the name was far from simple and not Romanian. It was recognizable as the name of an American President, but also Scottish. The priest would not be able to determine where he was from.

He shook his head and walked to the offered room. At least it wasn’t a cell. He put his bag down and looked at the simple bed. It was still better than he’d had in a while. He tucked the briefcase under it. He took the priests’ advice and went to shower when it was empty. It was very methodical for him; wash hair, clean body, but this was different. He took shampoo to his hair and slowly washed himself and tried hard to remember what it was like to enjoy warm water, to like being clean. His metal arm was waterproof and reacted to the water. He could feel when it was touched. He was so used to it by now that he didn’t think about why he could feel when it was touched or warm when the sun hit it. The Soldier struggled with feelings. They were confusing to him and he compartmentalized each of them as best he could. He absolutely couldn’t deal with all of them at once.

He stood under the water until it became cold, eyes closed. His body ached and he needed solid sleep. His mind drifted to the man on the bridge. His eyes, his shocked expression, then to a younger man, slimmer yet still full of fire.

_“I made you a cake. Couldn’t find any real flour at the store…”_

_“Aww Stevie, you didn’t have to do that.”_

_“But it’s your birthday, and you’re always doing stuff for me on my birthday!”_

_“That’s because it’s the fourth of July, Steve.”_

_It was mess, more like pudding than a cake, but Steve had done it with his own two hands and a feeling swelled in his chest. Heartache, love, confusion, all three things at once._

_“I suppose that’s true,” a rueful smile had spread across luscious pink lips. Lips that Bucky Barnes had badly wanted to kiss but held back. “Oh, well. Happy birthday Bucky! You’re twenty-one, pal!”_

_He had taken a great spoonful of the delicious smelling chocolate sludge and slopped it into a bowl, grinning like an idiot._

_He felt older. Taking care of his mother and his sisters after his father died had cut a serious dent in his marriage prospects. Not that he wanted to get married. What he wanted was staring at him across the table with flushed cheeks and a happy little smile. Steve. His best friend._

_“Oh, crap I forgot the candles…wait…” Steve insisted Bucky wait as he fished some candles out of the back of one of the drawers. He put a few on the “cake” as well as one on the scoop in the bowl in front of Bucky. He lit them up and grinned again, “Make a wish!”_

_“That’s kid’s stuff, Steve.”_

_“Aww, humor me, do it anyway,” Steve had insisted._

_There was nothing Bucky could do but give in. He knew what he wanted just as he knew he’d never get it. He gazed at Steve, made his stupid, ludicrous wish_ _and blew out the candles._

_Steve laughed and clapped his hands, “Alright. Let’s eat. Oh! Ice-cream!” He got a tin from the refrigerator. It was practically melted, but still good._

_“Steve, you can’t have that much sugar, you’ll never sleep.”_

_“Then I won’t sleep.”_

_They ate cake and ice-cream while the radio played with reporters nervously talking about Austria before the regular music numbers played. The boys talked about girls and the latest movie. They talked about their jobs and dreams of going to the coast on a holiday. They talked and talked, ending up on the couch. Snow was falling outside, and Steve shivered. Bucky went to drape a blanket over his shoulders. They couldn’t be too careful about Steve’s health. It was a miracle he lived this long._

_Bucky and Steve ended up on the couch. They shared the tiny apartment. They couldn’t afford anything else. At times it was wonderful and other times it was torture. Steve fell asleep leaning against Bucky as usual. He could get off the couch, but he didn’t want to. He could go out to a bar and pick up some girl_ _but he didn’t want to. He had everything he wanted right here._

_“I love you, Steve,” he whispered when he was sure Steve was asleep._

_He hadn’t expected an answer. “Love you too,” Steve mumbled and had barely been coherent._

_It was the best day of his life…and the worst time of his life. As long as he had Steve, he could manage anything, but he could never tell him the truth._

The Soldier jolted awake, and blinked as he quickly turned off the water taps. That was the first _clear_ memory that he’d ever had. Steve Rogers. He swallowed as he wrapped himself in a towel, shaking slightly. He was sure it was real. Hydra didn’t have the technology to put memories into him, only to erase them.

A realization slowly came over the Soldier. The man he was had been in love with Steve Rogers.

Just as he knew that to be true, he was also almost certain it wasn’t reciprocated. Steve Rogers thought of Bucky Barnes as his pal, his great buddy, his best friend. As far as memories went it wasn’t the most satisfying and he certainly didn’t feel the same way that Bucky Barnes had felt. He understood the memory, but those feelings were buried too deep.

He shuffled back to his borrowed room and sat down on the mattress. Out of reflex he checked to make sure everything was exactly as he left it. It was, so he dried off and got into the soft pants. He was still tired even after sleeping fitfully the previous night. He had the opportunity to sleep some more, so he would. He was comfortable here, there was something about it. He could feel that nothing was expected of him. This was a place he could heal.

He stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. He tugged the blanket up so that it covered his metal arm. The Soldier would plan the next step in his mission to recover his memory tomorrow. He knew it was unlikely he could fully resurrect James Buchanan Barnes, but he could try and restore the man and become human again. He wanted to do that before he confronted Steve. He wanted to know who Bucky Barnes was while he was still free to remember on his own.

He would not become a prisoner ever again.

Not by anyone.

He slept again, eventually, and this time it was a more than a full day before he woke.

TBC


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Soldier copes with his new normal.

When his eyes fluttered he didn’t feel different. The Soldier stared at the ceiling for a long time. The memory was still there, clear as day. Steve’s wide, happy smile. His own stomach felt queasy with the knowledge that he shouldn’t feel that way about his best friend, but he couldn’t stop the feeling of euphoria that came from a flashback that he made Steve laugh like that. He r _emembered_ it, but it didn’t mean anything. Without context, without the years that developed that feeling made it more than just an image.

He got up, dressed and looked at himself again. The mirror here was smaller but there was light in the room. His hair was clean and washed. He combed it and tied it back. He didn’t want to chop the hair yet: later. Besides, he wasn’t that. He was still the Soldier, he was no longer the Asset, but he was the Soldier.

Outside, he could hear sounds of construction. There was damage to the church from recent storms. He went into the foyer to meet with Father Dumitru. The man turned and smiled. He was pleased to see him but he didn’t immediately stop what he was doing. He just stopped long enough to show him where he could eat.

“You have been sleeping a long time.” The Priest gestured to where some coffee and pastries were nearby. “You missed breakfast, but we will be having a luncheon in a few hours.”

The foreign words still made sense, so it wasn’t all surface programming and he knew that language. His brain was still a human brain after all. The shirt that had been provided was long sleeved. He had tugged a glove over his metal hand. He nodded gruffly, “thanks. I can help.” He gestured outside as he went to pour himself some coffee. It smelled good and was warm.

“It is not required,” The priest watched him but didn’t study him. It was just another difference from being controlled.

“I need something to do,” the Soldier spoke quietly as he scratched his metal arm. That phantom itch again strained his nerves. He tried to keep his expression neutral. He needed an order and the realization that made him hate the very idea. If that was what he was trying to get away from, then why was he so desperate for something he was used to?

“Very well then,” the Priest said after some thought. If he realized what the Soldier was really asking there was no indication. “We are replacing damaged boards and shingles. I hope that you are not afraid of heights.”

“I fear nothing.” The Soldier picked up a pastry and ate. It was odd to have something in his stomach again when not much time had passed before he last ate.

“You slept for more than a day.” The Priest regarded him. “We have a doctor who regularly comes to the church to see to the homeless that come here from the countryside or the poor districts. You should let him look at you.”

“I need no medical attention. I have no injuries,” the Soldier shook his head.

“Somehow, I doubt that, my friend.” The Priest’s words were gentle. He wasn’t judging. “The foreman outside will give you work.”

The Soldier nodded. He finished his coffee and pastry and decided that was enough to sustain him until a future meal. He started to head outside and glanced to the main chapel. He remembered being somewhere…He sees a boy light a candle and froze.

_“I feel like a hypocrite.” Steve lit the candle for his mother. “We don’t belong in here.”_

_“What makes you say that?” Bucky leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “We come here every Sunday, like everyone else.”_

_“It ain’t us, Bucky.”_

_“Your ma asked me to take care of you, and I promised I would,” Bucky said sternly. “That includes making sure you get here every Sunday.”_

_“But you hate God,” Steve reminded him._

Somehow those words resonated into another memory.

The Soldier looked at the altar. How many times had the man -Bucky- railed angrily at God because Steve was in the hospital? Too many times. It wasn’t a pleasant memory.

_December 24 th, 1930; _Brooklyn Hospital Center _: “I hate God!” Bucky glared at the steps of the hospital. He was younger then and the weather was horrible. It was snowing and terribly cold. “Steve shouldn’t be in the hospital before Christmas.” He had a present for Steve_ _and he wouldn’t be able to give it to him. He was…thirteen._

_“Oh, my poor boy,” a young woman tried to reassure him. Steve’s mother? She was crouching down to try to get Bucky to stand up. He’d been crying. “Steve will pull through. You can’t hate God, Bucky.”_

_“Then why does he want to take Steve from us?”_

_“Because Steve is such a good boy, Bucky. He’s got a pure heart and soul. God just wants him back.” Sarah Rogers had held back her own tears and comforted Bucky on the steps of the hospital chapel.  
  
“But I love him so much,” Bucky had cried in her arms “I don’t want God to take him.”_

_“I know dear, me too,” Sarah had whispered gently._

_Steve hadn’t died that weekend, but he’d come close. Bucky knew that every time Steve got sick there was a chance of death, so he began to hate both hospitals and God for trying to take his best friend away._

So as a child, Steve had been sickly. The Soldier filed that away in real memories. He’d read about it of course, but this was different. He remembered it. There were several long moments before the priest cleared his throat and the Soldier returned to the present.

Without a word, he continued outside.

It wasn’t just a feeling. Religion had never been his thing. It felt hypocritical being there, but he had nowhere else to go and the last place anyone would think of would be a church. At this point it was a matter of strategy. He worked for his keep because he didn’t take charity. He left a donation. When he walked through the late morning sunlight, he realized he felt something.

It was a small thing, just tinder waiting to be struck, but it was an impression.

Hope.

Hope had started to form inside.

Hope was a dangerous thing for him so he would have to be careful. He would need to manage that. He could not afford to trust. It always betrayed him.

He nodded as he listened to the foreman’s instructions. He’d went where no one else wanted and fixed the tiles at the top of the church. It felt good to know what to do. It felt safe to have direction. He looked down at the foreman who seemed to be puzzled at how easily the Soldier had slipped into the project and soon he felt his thoughts had settled. His mind went a little numb as he tugged at loose nails and hammered a tile. The clanging sound was monotonous. It drove things back into place. He needed that and knew it would help him function as he sorted himself out.

It became routine.

He got up, he worked trying to help them get things fixed before the bad weather would come. He ate regular meals and his body began to fill back out. He was no longer thin, and his skin felt warm and healthy. He didn’t talk much but, he wasn’t pressured to, either. The priest sat silently during meals and his presence was welcome. He was just far enough away so that he wasn’t in the Soldier’s space.

A couple of months passed and he knew it was time to move on. His efficiency and silence started to get noticed. He could never stay too long in one place. SHIELD would find him. They were building back up after that fiasco and the Soldier knew it was only a matter of time. He wasn’t pleased because he liked it there and new memories had surfaced. Just more pieces of the puzzle. He’d marked everything down in his journal.

He had more dreams, too. They were chaotic and angry because his life was a series of terrible events and he’d never had time to process. The war nightmares were the worst because he’d wake up trying not to scream. Memories of the chair were equally horrible, but those he could process, they were reminders of pain he understood. 

Steve was a whole different problem. He hoped they would make sense eventually; he was developing regular headaches lately.

There were times the Soldier would wake in a cold sweat over a dream of squeezing the life out of Steve and then in the blink of an eye the blonde man would be fucking him hard and he wasn’t sure which scenario was. He didn’t sob afterwards, but it would affect him. He tried read or spent time thinking about nothing, meditation helped.

Sometimes the meditation made the flashes make sense, but otherwise he sat in confusion for hours. After some tense weeks he understood that Steve had never hurt him. The dreams had been induced by other trauma and nothing to do with Steve being rough with him. Things he’d forgotten, things they made him forget. Horrible memories that probed the back of his mind when he dug deeper. Things he did, things he suffered, and people he killed.

One night the priest offered to play a game of cribbage with him. It was an odd request. The priest usually left him alone. He decided to agree: what harm could it do?

Drinks were poured and the cards were shuffled. A few games in he began to realize the priest was awfully good at cards. It’s not a skill one would expect from a cleric. It also gave him an opportunity to study the man again. “Father Dumitru. I appreciate all that you’ve done for me.” He didn’t realize it, but he was speaking English.

“You’re an American, I had a suspicion,” Dumitru responded in English, as well. “You speak our language so fluently, it’s like you’re a native, but the telltale signs are there.” He shook a finger at Buchanan, “I know what you are about to say.”

The Soldier lifted his brows, concerned that he had lapsed into English without realizing it. “I haven’t been American in a very long time,” his spoke quietly.

“You are ready to leave.” Dumitru nodded. “If you wish to work in a new city, I know some contractors all over the country. I can put in a word.”

“That’s kind of you,” the Soldier played a card. “But it’s better you do not know where I am.”

“One day you will have to stop running.” Dumitru said softly as he played his turn. “Isn’t there someone who is looking for you?”

He thought of SHIELD. He thought of Hydra…but his mind settled on Steve Rogers.

“I think there is,” the Soldier looked pained. “I don’t think he really understands what’s happened to me.”

“You have spent a great deal of time here working things out,” the priest observed. “You’ve been through something terrible and came out the other end of it. Most men cannot handle such things. You have a strong heart. This man, does he love you?”

“He did once, I think,” the Soldier looked carefully at the priest. “Isn’t it supposed to be a sin in the Catholic world?”

“Are you Catholic?”

“No.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“No,” The soldier looks down, somewhat ashamed he admitted that he had used the church as a safe spot.

“You do not think God led you here, do you?” The Priest played another hand. “Perhaps he didn’t. There are many forces in this universe, and he doesn’t control all of them. One would have to be a fool to think otherwise. I have faith, but I am not an idiot. Nevertheless, here you are. A man with no faith, a man who thinks another man loved him, but he is not certain. A man with no idea what to do next. I can tell you what you should think about doing, if you would like some advice. You do not look like a man who often asks for or takes it.”

“That is true,” the Soldier responded softly. He hadn’t been a man in a long time, either. “I will listen.”

“This man who you think loved you, if he is still alive, you should go to him,” the priest nods. “Love is the hardest emotion to lose. If you think it is still there, then fight for it. Go to him.”

“It’s not that simple,” the Soldier shook his head.

Dumitru played the winning hand. “Another round?” He’d won twice already. “It’s only complicated if you let it be. Do you have feelings for this man?”

“I don’t know,” the Soldier replied honestly. “I don’t remember. I think I will turn in.” It meant goodbye. He knew it and the priest knew it.

“I see. I suspected head trauma. Buchanan, do you realize you’ve said more words tonight than the entire time you have been here?” The priest leaned back.

“Have I?” They were still speaking English. The Soldier wasn’t sure what to think about that. He reminded himself to leave a healthy donation before he left. “Perhaps your God has helped me after all.”

“Perhaps he has.” The priest took a drink from his cup. He was not a regular priest. The Soldier was certain by then. They did not drink and most certainly didn’t drink in front of others. “But I believe you have helped yourself by taking the time to reflect.”

“Your God would not help a man like me,” the Soldier disagreed. “But I am grateful for your kindness. I will not forget it.”

The Priest reached out to shake his hand. “Safe travels, my friend.”

“Thank you.” The soldier headed back to his room. It was late, but the darkness is the cover he traveled in. When the church was quiet, he packed his things. Even when it was dark, there was a small light within the great altar. The moonlight shone down through the great stained glass that illuminated the statue of Jesus. He took one more look and passed the donation box. He stuffed five thousand leu into it. He moved to the building he’d first found and retrieved the rest of his things. He paused as he did, noticing the dusty old mirror.

The man in the mirror that looked back at him was hard to recognize. He looked healthy. He’d shaved. He’d slept. He’d eaten well and he’d lived. He looked away abruptly. He still didn’t know enough. He was stronger now, healed. The Soldier sighed and went to find his hidden motorcycle. Where would he go next?

_Steve’s face appeared in his mind, “Come home, Buck…Come back to me…”_

He couldn’t, he still wasn’t Bucky Barnes. He couldn’t face Steve like this. His next stop would be Budapest. He’d lie low there for a while and hope he had enough time, hope no one would find him before he could sort everything out. It felt odd that he was willing to consider hope again. Who was he? He knew the things he’d done would land him in prison. Whether or not there would be any kind of concessions for the fact that he was under Hydra’s control, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to kill anyone, but he’d had no choice. When the mission happened, it happened. He could not disobey. He had to comply.

He filled his bike up with gas and left the town he’d never return to. It had given him a lot to think about though and he was glad to have something to keep his mind busy. He had an idea. He stopped at the nearest pay phone. Steve wasn’t exactly the most tech savvy man on the planet and the Soldier had hacked a lot of info. In spite of working with Tony Stark, Steve’s cellphone number was not difficult to locate.

It was daybreak in Romania, and he dialed Steve’s phone. It would be late the previous night.  
  
The phone rang twice before it was picked up and a groggy voice answered, “Rogers.” 

The sound sent a shiver up the Soldier’s spine. Steve’s voice. He wasn’t sure what to say.

“Who is this?” Steve sounded like he was trying to wake himself up.

He had only wanted to hear Steve’s voice. He didn’t want to talk, and he knew he couldn’t leave the phone on too long.

Steve grumbled a little bit.

“Steve,” the Soldier forced the word out; his mouth was dry, and his back was so tense he felt it locking up.

“Bucky?” Steve was immediately awake.

“Stop looking for me,” the Soldier grunted.

“No chance of that,” Steve said firmly. “Where are you? I can come to you. I can come alone.”

“No, Steve.”

“Buck, please…”

“Not now, Steve,” the Soldier sighed. He had only wanted to hear Steve’s voice, to confirm a memory. “Can I ask ask you something?"

“Anything!” Steve sounded breathless, almost desperate.

“Did we fuck?” The question was spoken as bluntly as possible.

There was a pause at the other end of the line. “Are your memories returning?”

“Answer the question.”

Steve gave a little sigh. “Yeah, Bucky. Yeah we did. It was complicated, messy, and took a toll on us. It was a difficult time.”

“Thank you for being honest.”

“My turn to get an answer,” Steve exhaled. “Are your memories returning?”

The Soldier grunted, “Some.”

“Well, that’s good news, at least. You shouldn’t be on your own,” said Steve. “There are people other than me hunting you and they won’t be nice when they catch you.”

“I am aware,” the soldier responded.

The silence after that was difficult for the Soldier to process. He did not know what to say. He had the answer to the question he had wanted. He needed to know for certain that the memory flashes were real.

“You reached out,” Steve said after some time. “God, Bucky, do you have any idea how that makes me feel? I want so badly to find you, -be- with you.”

“I don’t want you to find me,” the Soldier tried to make it plain.

“Then why did you call me?” Steve said with a swallow. The Soldier could feel the pain in the other man’s speech. 

“To hear your voice,” the Soldier replied. He did not expect the emotional sob from the other end, and it was too much for him to handle. “I have to go now.”

“Please call again, let me know you’re okay,” begged Steve. 

The Soldier hung up the phone without answering. He stood there for a long moment, leaning against the booth. The call to Steve was a momentary lapse of control. He hadn’t been ready for that confrontation. He knew he had to get away from the general vicinity just in case the call was traced. Once he found a safe location, he sat on a park bench with his arms on his knees.

_“But I knew him.”_

The words meant more to him now than they had the first time he’d brokenly uttered them to his Handler. He’d known Steve, known him intimately. They were lovers. It made sense; he could work with that and fit it into his unfolding memory. He took a small breath and found that his dominant hand was shaking. Old orders playing in the back of his mind.

_“Steve Rogers is a threat we have to eliminate. I know I can count on you, Soldier.”_

_“Mission accepted.”_

He flexed his hand and grunted in annoyance. It occurred to him that hearing the words in his mind didn’t have the same reaction as they previously did. The same fear that remembering what Hydra had done to and with him would somehow trigger a shutdown. That was a can of worms, though. Memories locked tightly away. He remembered screaming until his throat was so dry no sound could come out. Remembering the pain was enough. Remembering it was enough to never want to be someone else’s weapon again. He sat there for a long time and it looked to anyone passing that he was just thinking. In reality, he meditated and got his mind back to a numb place so that he could function. It took some time to sort through, but eventually he managed it and moved on.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world finds him.

When he arrived in Bucharest he found a place that had cheap apartments for rent. He got another construction job. No one questioned those. Extra hands were always needed and under the table pay meant no government or taxes. It was fine. He managed. He fell back into a routine: worked, ate, slept, and read. He meditated, he ran to keep in shape, though he didn’t need to. He kept to himself, as he didn’t want attention. He checked the news daily for both local and international developments. He was always ready to run. He kept his notes in his journal. If a new memory surfaced than he forced himself to write it down, even if it was a horrible one. He had to. It was the only way he managed.

There was no one to talk to, not that he was very interested in talking. He didn’t want to make friends. There was only one person he wanted to be friends with again.

Since that phone call with Steve, he hadn’t called again. He heard about everything that was going on in the past couple of years. He didn’t deliberately seek information beyond watching the news because he didn’t want anything to interfere with real memories. He took each one and analyzed it for inconsistencies before accepting it. It was methodical and somewhat cold, but it was how he survived. Compartmentalizing didn’t mean that he didn’t have feelings; it was just a defense against them for now. He could not afford to get messed up. He had to stay alert. He had to make sure that no one was watching him.

SHIELD still had a lot of resources. They could find him if they put enough agents on the ground. It was odd to him that they hadn’t found him. He had been in the same place for a while and yet no one had discovered him.

Time passed slowly and he worried about getting too comfortable. He liked it here. He liked the city of Bucharest and he liked the people. They were survivors, like him. He was able to live as though he was ghost trying to figure out how to be a man. He did not make friends. The last person he had a meaningful conversation was Dimitru. 

Reminding himself of the priest made the Soldier a little uneasy. The cynic in him pressured him not trust the charity of a church again mixed with the fact that SHIELD hadn’t found him. Perhaps there was a correlation, perhaps not. Perhaps SHIELD was busy hunting down other criminals and dealing with insane robots. He didn’t know. It was just odd that he’d been able to avoid even seeing any agents around. Perhaps they were giving him a wide berth, perhaps Steve had something to do with it. He didn’t know. He suspected that he was being watched though, from afar. It had been too long. He’d had too much freedom for too much time.

Instead of moving, he decided to stay where he was. He liked Romania. He knew the language, he liked the food, the scenery, everything about it. The routine was one he could live with. He hadn’t fought anyone since the fight with Steve. It felt good. He was living, or trying to.

As time passed, he’d slowly begun to understand the man he was and just when he had decided he was comfortable with that, the world caught up with him. He knew it was too good to last. One day he realized he was thinking in English again. One thing he realized was he was thinking in English again. For how long, he couldn’t say. It was a small thing, but it was something.

And the world had caught up with a vengeance.

Someone had used his identity to kill a bunch of important people and when he entered his apartment, he found Captain America standing there. He blinked and frowned. It took several moments before he convinced himself that he wasn’t dreaming. Then a few more to realize that his solitary life was screeching to a halt.

“Hey Bucky,” said Steve when he turned around. The words felt like a punch to the gut.

“Steve,” the Soldier responded slowly. He was tense, keenly aware that people couldn’t be that far away. He’d seen the looks in the market.

It was a strange feeling when it happened: the instant he knew who he was, when Steve stood there and looked at him with such an expression of hope. That was the moment when he knew who he was. He stared at Steve for a long time, working that all out inside. He wasn’t the Soldier anymore, and hadn’t been for a long time. He was a man. He was man who was called James Buchanan Barnes.

It was a sobering realization. All the years of pain and trauma between them and it came down to this feeling, this connection between them, this…devotion. It had been capable of saving the man. Steve had got through to him. The man who stood a few feet away had helped him get so many things back: his life, his soul, his essence.

“You in there, Buck?” Steve asked softly, like he was talking to frightened animal backed into a corner. His voice sounded hesitant, unsure. “I’m not here to fight you.”

Those words were probably because of the knife Bucky was holding in his hand. The Soldier didn’t ask who Bucky was that time. He knew. He knew who he was. He was Bucky Barnes. Steve was there. It meant something inside. It felt warm and his heart hammered in his chest. His skin prickled, and his metal arm twitched. He carefully sheathed his knife.

“Are you here to take me in?” Bucky regarded Steve warily. Bucky…he was Bucky, not the Soldier. He was Bucky Barnes, but Steve didn’t need to know that, yet. It was too much power to let go of, too much control someone could use over him. He wasn’t the Soldier anymore. 

“It doesn’t have to be messy, Bucky.”

“I don’t see any other way,” Bucky flexed his fingers.

“I can protect you,” Steve tried to assure him. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” Bucky shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to have Steve protecting him. “Get out of the way, Steve.”

Steve didn’t move. “No, that’s not happening.”

It was all just too much and not enough all at once. Everything happening at that moment felt like a tidal wave. He felt overloaded and anything he could think of seemed trite and it made it impossible to address anything at all. “Leave me alone,” Bucky declared fiercely. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

Steve shook his head, “no, and you know why.”

He grunted. Steve hadn’t changed at all. He reached out to try and shove him. Solid wall, but he actually flinched. He shoved him again using more force and Steve smirked. Bucky scowled. He bunched his fingers over one of the belts around Steve’s torso and grabbed it with his metal hand. He was about to toss Steve across the room when Steve leaned in and kissed him.

He froze, he hadn’t had any contact with someone else this intimately in a long time. Bucky fought the Soldier’s knee jerk reaction to spring away and smash Steve in the face with his fist. Those lips were so soft though, so warm and inviting and Steve had opened his mouth. Bucky’s body shuddered, starved for soothing touches. He struggled with internal defense mechanisms that were trying to have a war with a visceral reaction he was experiencing. Touching led to pain.

This wasn’t pain; this was nice. His grip loosened on the belt and his mouth fell open. Steve’s hand slipped down to hold his waist. Warning flashes fired through his mind. Stop. Danger. Stop. That was the Soldier’s reaction.

He wished he could shut off his thoughts. Where were those great techniques that he’d spent months developing? Steve’s tongue was doing things to him and he couldn’t think. He just wanted more. Warmth pooled in his belly and his fingers tingled. He was on fire, his heartbeat quickened, and he reacted _._ He didn’t usually respond when people touched him. This was different. Steve’s hand was on his ass, his fingers in his hair. Bucky’s mouth was wet and his body shivered with pleasure. A small sound escaped his lips. It was so good, a wave of emotion was threatening to drown him, and Bucky knew he had to drag himself away. Do something. He couldn’t imagine anything feeling better than Steve taking command of his mouth like it belonged to him. He wanted to surrender, and to run at the same time. The Soldier shook him until his brain rattled. Danger! Fire! Pain! Stop! He needed that to slow down. He gently pressed a hand against Steve’s shoulder and tried to push at him. He couldn’t back out himself, but he needed Steve to.

Steve withdrew with a soft questioning sound. “Bucky?” He panted hard from the intensity of it.

“Please. _Stop_.” The Soldier forced him to say the word to make sure Steve heard it. This was why he didn’t get close to people. He knew he looked miserable. He _wanted_ Steve to continue. He wanted to feel good. He wanted something new and pleasant to remember but he couldn’t let it continue.

Instantly Steve let go of him and took the warmth with him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “That was too soon. I didn’t mean to do that. No, that’s not right. I…I _am_ sorry.”

“Thank you,” whispered Bucky. His breath rushed back into him and he shuddered again. He was about to say something else when the world crashed in.

He had no time to process he had to react. They came from all sides. He threw himself into reaction mode, both protecting himself and Steve. Every move that followed was to survive. Every hit, every kick. He only looked back to make sure that Steve didn’t take blows meant for him. It was reaction after reaction after reaction up until they captured him.

He didn’t know exactly what they wanted but he knew that the Soldier did not have dominance anymore. He was Bucky now and he would fight like hell to stay Bucky. He didn’t go through months of self-awareness to ruin it all. He tried to get away, he tried to fight his way out. They kept coming.

Bucky had found himself only to be locked up again.

And now he was in another chair, surrounded by thick windows. The Soldier could help him here too, but he could not rely on that. Neither would he answer questions. There was nothing SHIELD could do to him that was worse than what Hydra had done. He would not be the Soldier again. He would rather die.

Steve stood outside the cube. “I’m sorry about this,” he put his hand on the glass.

Bucky looked at him coldly, hiding behind the Soldier. “I didn’t kill anyone, not this time.”

“I know that,” Steve said softly. “They just want information. Whatever you have on Hydra.”

Bucky turned away and looked straight ahead. He didn’t want to discuss anything with Steve, not when they were being watched.

“I’ll figure this out, I’ll get you out of this,” Steve swore.

Bucky forced Steve’s words away, focused on staying himself.

Steve ran a frustrated hand through his hair and let his fist punch lightly against the glass, “I’m here,” he said in a tone filed with sadness. When Bucky wouldn’t look at him, he finally left to go face the music.

He wasn’t there anyway, he was on the glass, out of reach. Bucky couldn’t feel his warmth. He could only feel the chill of the cold _cage_ he was stuck. It almost reminded him of being in cryo. It wasn’t so bad; there was no pain, at least. No matter what Steve said, Bucky knew he wasn’t in control. The government had its claws in the Avengers now. When the lights were turned out and he was expected to ‘sleep’ he did not. They didn’t know what he had gone through. He could stay up for days. He could survive on bits of food. He could handle this. The Soldier was fully capable of survival in this kind of setting, but he didn’t want to be the Soldier. He didn’t want this anymore.

He wanted to be Bucky Barnes.

As he blinked into the darkness, the implication of that hit him. He didn’t want to merely exist anymore. He wanted to live. He craved Steve’s lips on his. He planned to walk in the sunlight and look into a clear blue sky knowing that he’d done everything he could.

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he muttered under his breath over and over again until he drifted off to sleep.

He didn’t want to be Bucky Barnes for Steve.

He wanted it for himself. He wanted his life back. He wanted to remember his family. He wanted to remember everything that he was and be that man again.

He wanted the Soldier gone forever.

*

He didn’t know how long he’d been there and then suddenly he was not alone. There was a man there. A dark haired deceptively calm looking man. He distrusted him immediately.

_"Hello_ , Mr. Barnes _. I've been sent by the United Nations to evaluate you. Do you mind if I sit? I'm not here to judge you, I just want to ask you a few questions. Do you know where you are, James? I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James."_  
  
"My name is Bucky."


End file.
